The House On The Hill
by InsanityPushedMeOffTheEdge
Summary: "See me rise the mighty Surt, bringer of pain and endless hurt, scorcher of men and Earth." I died. Then I lived. VeryDarkOC! Slash!


Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit, its characters and settings, it all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am merely expressing my own twist on both his work and Peter Jackson's version of The Hobbit (I haven't actually read the books so this will be based of the movies.)

Okay so I am going to warn all readers only once so please listen. This story will contain graphic depictions of violence, torture and sexual abuse. (Please do well to remember that although I write about such things, I do not in any way condone them.) It will also contain explicit sexual scenes and foul language. It will also include homosexual relationships, polygamorous relationships, quite possibly a kink or two and whatever else I decide to throw in there. Please try to read with an open mind. Thank you and lets begin!

* * *

My first life could be described as nothing more than a inevitable rise to an explosive crescendo.

If I had to compare it to something, I'd say watching my first life was probably like setting up the exact same track of dominoes for the hundredth time and watching them fall. You know what's going to happen, you know exactly what path they are going to take and you can already see how they'll fall; therefore you're not surprised when the last one does.

To begin with, I grew up in a crappy one-bedroom apartment made all the worse by the other person who lived there.

I didn't have a Mother, from what my Father told me she was a nasty and vindictive woman who left me and my Father out of the belief she was worth more than us, and therefore _deserved_ more than us.

(Which is probably right)

But honestly, I don't accept that to be the defining reason of why she left. From what _I_ believe, my Mother had realised just exactly what type of man my Father was.

(He was poison. Slow but potent and effective. He slithered under you skin and spread through your body, covering the smell of decay and rot with a cloying sickly-sweet mask of love and affection. This way you wouldn't notice until it was too late and you were nothing but a weak, crumbling husk of who you once were.)

And with this realisation my Mother gained the understanding that a man like my Father would never be able to produce something good, it was an impossibility. Anything with that disgusting, corrosive green twisting through its veins would never be able to create something _kind_ or something _beautiful_ because it had never been either of those things itself. Any child of of my Father would contain his green blood, and no matter how far away I got from him, nothing would change the fact it was inside me, because his blood was my blood, but my blood was also my own and it would to produce its own special brand of poison. No matter how hard she tried to stop it.

I assume my Mother came to this conclusion, and with it she ran far and she ran fast. From both me and my Father.

She was right to do so.

* * *

As a child I was angry- actually I was angry no matter what age I was but as a child I had not yet found any way to express my anger, to use it until i was satisfied. For years I silently continued my day with a persistent flare in the back of my mind that _screamed_ for something I hadn't yet discovered.

(I later learned it was blood.)

I remember being angry at the children who refused to play with the scruffy kid that their parents had warned them away from.

(Although I can recall one girl, she wanted to play House. I ended up giving her a split lip and two black eyes. At the time I didn't understand, weren't all households this way? What had she expected? Nevertheless, we never played again.)

I remember growing furious with teachers who reprimanded me for lashing out at the children that tried to mock my ragged clothes and rough demeanor.

(One teacher especially, Mrs. Elliot, made me so angry that when she leaned down to scold me to my face I stuck my pencil though her cheek. I had to transfer schools after that but I was oddly satisfied.)

Eventually, I went from and angry child to and angry teen. Somewhere inbetween this I became 'friends' with a few other people in my neighborhood and we did just about _all_ the things we weren't supposed to. Smoking in particular I enjoyed, the burn in my throat and heady sensation in my lungs. Other things, like drugs, sex and drinking were just ways to pass the time but ultimately, I loved being in a gang for one reason.

The _fights._

* * *

I don't really understand why, nor do I care either, but out of everything I've done and experienced in my life, _nothing_ satisfied me more than an act of fierce, bone-breaking violence. I loved every aspect of it: the give-and-take exchange of fist and weapons, the feel of sweat rolling down burning limbs, the near-rapturous release of pressure behind every blow, and that squelch-snap sound of _something_ breaking-

(whether that _something_ belonged to me or them didn't matter)

-it was _euphoric_.

(Maybe that made me a sadist. Or a masochist. Maybe both.)

And so, with my newfound gusto for life, time passed. Gradually, I grudgingly came to like the small group of people I had been hanging out with since the beginning of my teens; as a result of this, I learned that the household I grew up in was not the norm. Men were not supposed to treat their sons and women-

(Of which there had been many over the years- all of whom, unlike my mother, hadn't realised they were caught in his clutches until it was too late to escape; they were only released and allowed to walk out the door once they were broken, unrecognisable pieces of a puzzle that would never again be complete)

-as my Father did. Of course in reaction to this I grew furious, at both my Father and myself; the similarities between us sickened me.

(Truthfully, I did not fully understand morality, could not fully grasp its meaning. But with this new knowledge that Fathers were not supposed to act how mine did, I became aware that my Father was _wrong,_ and I did _not_ want to be wrong like him.)

* * *

My determination to not be like my father led me to giving up everything.

(But not before I broke his face with my fists and his legs with my feet.)

No more drinking, no drugs and no more bloodshed. I got a job,- despite my horrific academic record- a tiny flat and I tried, I really tried, to be a good person.

It didn't last for long.

After a while I grew restless; my hands twitched with the need to hit something, my jaw ticked with intense amounts of irritation and my anger just built and built and _built._ It was not as if I lost myself to my anger, more like I let myself go in it, more like I _reveled_ in it.

(And so my attempts at being a good person ended just like that. I never looked back.)

Soon enough, I was back on the streets, pushing drugs and cutting down competition. Then, in the midst of all the fighting, partying and dizzying adrenaline that comes with breaking the law, I noticed that I was actually somewhat, kind-of happy.

Despite how quickly it ended.

Because it was expected really. Accepted and irrefutable. With the type of man I was, with the type of things I did and the kind of life I lived, it was obvious to even the blindest of men that I was going to die young.

Of course I was; men like me were destructive to even themselves, and nobody knew how much of a ticking time-bomb I was more than myself.

(It seemed as though my brand of poison was was both less and more that my Father's. Whereas his was slow, wickedly saccharine and loved to eat at the minds of its prey, mine was vicious and fast-acting, it preferred to break its victim's bodies with ruthlessness and brutality as its weapons)

I knew my actions would only result in enemies, and one day they would retaliate so forcefully that even having poison running through my veins wouldn't be enough to stop them.

So when death came for me at the young age of twenty-one it was bittersweet; I didn't want to die, but then again I wouldn't have changed a single thing that led to it either. Because my actions were made using my conscious thought and I don't regret any of them.

And so, I closed my eyes and slipped away into nothing.

Then, I _awoke_


End file.
